“The strait jacket’s canvas held my arms tight. My six-two was horizontal on a stretcher and the two bruisers carried it and my 205 pounds easily down the long corridor. I was confused as modern art, and being in this stupid asylum didn’t help. I was dumped onto a bed, yelling like a fiend. A needle, a stinging sensation in my neck and it was lights out for me. I awoke with a light beaming upon my face. A blade moved upward through the beam of light. And suddenly I was wide awake, thinking: This idiot is about to stab me! Me? I’m Shell Scott private eye and I’m in a lot of trouble...”
Amador Montalba, Mexico City guide, and good friend of Shell Scott, alerts Scott to a wealthy woman in Mexico City who needs help. Shell is in Mexico City winding up another case and decides to follow up on the lead. Senora Lopez, wife of a prominent Mexican General, was secretly filmed during an extra-marital sex liaison with another man. After several payoffs to a blackmailer, she decides to turn the case over to Shell Scott. But the case is not one of simple blackmail. Communists appear to be involved, and the local police want Shell Scott in their jail...permanently..
A rash of hit and run deaths in Los Angeles has the press in an uproar. The police have no clue as to the primary cause and the deceased are all men who appear to have been brutalized prior to the time of the accident. But there are other aspects to the case and Shell Scott has been hired by a not so upstanding night club owner to investigate. When Shell discovers a murder for hire conspiracy with overtones of blackmail, he finds himself looking down the barrel of a .32 caliber automatic and no apparent method of escape. But Shell Scott doesn't die easily...
Shell Scott\'s mental contemplation was rudely interrupted when his office door was suddenly opened and an unpleasant little man walked in with a .45 caliber automatic pointed right at Shell\'s midsection. Unknown to Shell Scott, some guy named Sader wanted Shell eliminated permanently. Why, is the question? Shell had never heard of Sader. His answer came in the form of a red-headed bombshell in high heels who distracted the hood long enough for Shell to connect hard on the guy\'s chin. But before he could get the answers he needed, the red-head disappeared...
J. Harrison Bing after receiving no word from his daughter in nearly a year, went to her home in L.A. only to find she had sold the home and left without a trace. He hired a Los Angeles P. I. named William Carter to track her down and after calling from Vegas, he also disappeared. Now it is Shell Scott\'s turn. Assuming a simple case of finding a missing person, Shell finds out the hard way that he has bitten into an elephant. When the hoods close in and the bullets start flying Shell discovers he is the target, and there is more to this case than first realized...
SHELL SCOTT, the shamus who has Sherlock whirling in his grave...the wacky knight-errant of gorgeous gals who leaves a trail of beautiful bodies behind him (not all of em dead)...the private eye who\'s every killer\'s public enemy. This is the first book in this action-packed mystery series. The Case of the Vanishing Beauty began when one beauty vanished from sight and another died in a hail of bullets. Next on the murder list was lovely Lina...Lina who was hotter than a welder\'s torch...and Shell Scott had left his asbestos suit at home.
Suspicious and dangerous accidents were happening. People were dying, including the private eye I had been sent to replace. I didn't like it. But hey, that's what I'm hired to do. I deal daily with murder and mayhem. The real problem was when I had to go
There were twelve of them. Bottoms, that is. Au naturel. The most eye-wrecking collection of derrieres ever to pop out of a printed page. The \"WOW\' pin-up girls...one for each month of the year. No faces, no names, not even swaddling clothes...
We were dancing, my client and I. But it was much more than just a dance. It was like doing the fox trot and getting your pants pressed at the same time. Or an anatomy lesson in four-four rhythm. I believe in the personal touch when it comes to a client a
When business owner and personal friend Jay Weather is murdered, all the evidence points to P.I. Mark Logan as the killer. Logan knows he didn\'t do it...or does he? It is his .357 found next to the body, and he can\'t remember where he was, or what he did
Every bloodthirsty hoodlum, every trigger-happy gunman in the state of California had that song on his lips. I didn't like it. I'm no music lover and, what's more, I was the rascal they were dying to kill. Me. Shell Scott.
She yanked the door open with a crash and said, "Gran--," but then stopped and stared at me. She was nude as a noodle. "You're not Grandma!" I said, "No, I'm Shell Scott, and you're not grandma either!" She slammed the door in my face.
